Snapshots of the Moon
by Miss Puppylove
Summary: The longest one-shot in the history of the world, concerning Sirius, Remus, childhood, Hogwarts, and not really growing up. (Slash)


Notes: This is far longer than it has any right to be. It also contains copious references to The Lord of the Rings, but at this point I don't suppose I'll have to worry too much about people not knowing what I'm talking about on that front. As always on this account, if you don't like slash, or simply don't like Sirius and Remus in love with each other, feel free to turn back. The rest of you, enjoy. 

Disclaimer: the Harry Potter books and all related things that I repeatedly refer to in this fic belong not to me, but to JKR. The Lord of the Rings and related things belong to JRR Tolkien, and whoever else owns the rights now. I have no idea who Shakespeare's plays belong to at this point.

Snapshots of the Moon

Sirius Black is six years old.

At the moment, he is staring fixedly at a certain worn spot on his father's carpet, and trying very, very hard not to cry.

"Well?" the boy's father says quietly. It is almost a gentle question; Arcturus Black rests his chin in his hand, and his elbow against his great oak desk, as he surveys his son. The boy's fine robes are singed, his left hand burned and hastily wrapped in suspiciously grubby rags, his right hand, small and defiant, still guiltily clutching his uncle's wand. 

At the soft question, Sirius looks up fiercely through his black fringe. "Not _my_ fault," he mumbles.

Arcturus gets up very suddenly from behind his desk. He towers in the room, an imposing outline against the great high windows of the study. Sirius shuffles his feet, and very carefully doesn't cower. He also very carefully doesn't flinch or back away when his father, in a rustle of expensive black robes, kneels on the carpet beside him. "Let's see that hand," his father says.

Sirius blinks at him, blue eyes full of anger and tears in his small face. "Which hand?" he asks.

His father ignores the impertinence completely, and instead simply takes the boy's left hand, bound in its grubby rag. Arcturus frowns at the pitiful bandage. "Who bound your hand, Sirius?"

Sirius Black is only six years old, but he already knows the relative merits of truth. He swallows the reply of _Mother_, and says quietly, gulping as his father peels away the bandage, "Kreacher did."

Arcturus frowns at the livid red skin splashed across his son's palm. "I shall give that elf a talking-to. This is poor work." He seems to ignore the little gasp as he uncaringly drops Sirius's palm, and the boy's hand falls back painfully against his side. Arcturus adds, "Have your mother see to it," and, his more tender parental duties completed, stands again to be the imposing disciplinarian. "Now," he says, "how did this happen?"

Seeing the inevitable coming, Sirius stares again at the worn spot on the carpet. "Not my fault," he repeats stubbornly.

"If you continue so," his father says, a warning note in his voice, "I'm afraid I'll have no choice but to consider it your fault and no one else's. Now. _Where_, and more importantly, _how_, did you get those burns?"

Sirius whispers her name. He will not admit this, but he is afraid of her, far more afraid than he is of his father. After all, she had cared not one whit for the burns. Sirius _hates_ her, but he knows he cannot tell his father any of this.

More importantly, Sirius knows that, unless he tells Arcturus, his father will not know. He knows something his father does not. There is power in that.

Arcturus grabs his son's chin, forces Sirius to look him in the eye. The boy looks back at him with beguiling innocence. "Say that again, Sirius," he says. "Louder, this time."

They both know there is power in this knowing. Perhaps one, watching this scene, might say that the little boy is overreacting, is playing some foolish mind game with no point or purpose. But Sirius knows differently, and knows that even with this secret, his father has the upper hand.

"Bella," he mutters.

"Bellatrix?" his father repeats, not allowing Sirius to look away. "Why?"

And Sirius suddenly knows something else. He will be safe if he stops saying _it wasn't me_. It is safer to be guilty than to be innocent. And so he says, "I stole her broom."

"And her father's wand?" There is a note of amusement in Arcturus' voice. Sirius shall receive no pity.

"She set me on _fire_," Sirius says anyway. "And the wand was right there, and all I did was put myself out –"

Arcturus waves the explanation away. "Enough. Give me that wand and clean yourself up. Change into your night things. And do throw those clothes away; give them to Kreacher, he'll take care of them. You should know we're not buying you new robes; we belong to a fine and old family, but it does not do to squander our advantages. Now, go find your mother and put something on that hand."

Sirius nods. He doesn't understand all the words, but the meaning is clear enough. He walks the endless way across his father's study, past rustling bookcases that his little hands, burned though they are, itch to get ahold of. In those bookcases is the knowing that his father has, and Sirius has not.

As soon as the office door shuts, Sirius begins to run. He runs not across the hall and on up the stairs in search of his mother, but down the steps, heading for the kitchen. He is almost there, as far as the great front hall, when a voice, arrogant and snapping, stops him.

"What did you tell him?"

Sirius turns slowly. His cousin is ten, wearing long hair and gaudy green robes. She is leaning against the doorframe leading into one of the old rooms full of heirlooms, and her untouched toy broom leans against the wall beside her. She is holding her wand nonchalantly, and a look of expectancy sits upon her face, which is still childishly round. She is beautiful, in exactly the way Sirius' mother is not.

Sirius wants to punch her stupid face in.

"I said I stole your broom," he replies resentfully.

Bellatrix giggles. "But you know I wouldn't set you on fire if you stole my broom. I might burn the broom, and _that's_ no fun."

Sirius doesn't have the courage to ask her what she _would_ do instead.

"You didn't tell him you had your first duel?" Bellatrix asks. "You didn't tell him you got to use Daddy's wand, and that you actually managed some _red sparks_ before I – "

He does try to punch her then, but he is shorter than she is, and his arm swings wide. Sirius spins around with the force of it, and Bellatrix considerately grabs his left hand to keep him from falling. Sirius yells.

"Shut up, you stupid kid," Bellatrix snaps. She gives his hand a final spiteful squeeze, and Sirius whimpers. "You're pathetic," she adds for good measure, and storms off to find and dote on little Regulus.

For a minute Sirius stands there, quivering and trying not to wail at the painful pulsing from his hand. He finally takes a shuddering breath and continues into the kitchen. He climbs up onto a counter, and with his good hand fumbles around in a cupboard too high up for him to properly see inside. Finding what his groping hand had been searching, he hops back to the floor and scampers up to his room.

There, with the lights off and twilight deepening, Sirius sits in the window seat, carefully sticks his entire hand in the jar of cool salve. It is only now, almost an hour after the incident, that tears begin to trickle down his cheeks, wracking his small body with silent sobs. He allows no one to hear, and there is no one to see, except the full moon, rising orange above the rooftops of London. 

And Sirius is too miserable to notice.

* * *

Remus Lupin is seven years old.

He has just finished, for the first time, a most wonderful book. It is an old book, a treasure from his mother's childhood. The pages are soft, and yellowed, and the edges crackle. They smell musty and sweet, like the old pastry shop down in the village; Remus imagines the past must always smell like this, and wonders faintly if it is possible to go back into sepia photographs and check the atmosphere there for himself. Just now, however, Remus is not associating the sugar and the must with the passage of time; just now, his head is full of goblins far more hideous than the Gringotts variety, and of dwarves in high mountains, and of great eagles, and of a little gold ring.

For a minute now or more, Remus has been sitting in the squishy old armchair, gazing wide-eyed into nothing – and in reality, at the daffodils outside in the Lupins' modest back yard – and holding his precious _Hobbit_ tightly. He now springs up, and dashes light-footed across the house, to where Miriam Lupin appears to be cooking something truly delicious for supper.

"Mum, Mum!" Remus gasps, skidding into the little kitchen on his worn socks. "I finished – it's brilliant –"

Miriam laughs and waves a ladleful of soup at him. "Yes, didn't I say it was? Here, have a taste of this."

Remus obliges happily, then sits down at their little wooden table, and strokes the spine of the old book fondly. "Dad said there's more."

"Yes," Miriam says again, more thoughtfully this time. "Nearly a thousand pages more, I think. But hardly any of the same characters reappear … Only Gandalf has a significant role. I don't recall Bilbo or any of the dwarves really having a part."

"But it's got hobbits, hasn't it?" Remus persists, swinging his legs under the chair, as they don't quite touch the floor yet. "And dwarves and elves and wizards?"

Miriam shakes her head, still smiling, and shuts off the gas range. "Oh, I don't remember, Remus, it's been ages since I've read it. And _The Lord of the Rings_ is frightfully long … I really don't know where it's gotten to. When did your father say he'd be home?"

Remus shrugs, far more interested in the soup that his mother is taking off the stove. "Around six, he said."

Nodding, Miriam says, "Do get us some bowls, would you, love?" Remus complies immediately as his mother sets the pot of soup on a large and rather beautiful, though chipped, dish, to prevent the soup burning the worn tablecloth. Remus comes back with three bowls, and is about to sit down when the front door opens with its customary creak. Face breaking into a grin, Remus dashes off down the hallway.

Miriam ladles out the soup, gets some bread from the breadbox, and takes off her blue apron. She has just sat down at their comfortable round table with the flower-patterned tablecloth when her boys return – Remus, with his bright eyes and quick hands and mouse-brown hair; Augustus, with his tidy robes and tired face and kind smile. They both sit down, and begin their soup with enthusiasm.

A few minutes later, as stomachs begin to fill and some of Remus' thrilled energy, from a wonderful book and sitting still too long, has worn off, Miriam ventures, "Any luck today?"

Remus's father sighs, and leans back in his chair, which creaks in protest. The room's atmosphere changes subtly, and Remus, sensing this, looks from his mother to his father and back again. Augustus and Miriam are of a mind to keep nothing from their son, but sometimes keeping no secrets is painful. They would both much rather say nothing, and keep Remus as happy as possible for as long as possible.

"I doubt," Augustus says, "that we shall ever have luck of any sort unless the Ministry realizes that it would be more productive to search for cures instead of pass ordinances. Registration – a bloody _beast_ division …" He passes a hand over his face, and turns to his son. "I'll keep looking, I promise."

The boy bites his lip. "I don't mind," he says, "really I don't." The eager laughter has left his face, replaced by a sort of earnest solemnity. "It's not so bad, and I'm used to it now." Remus swallows. This is difficult; he knows his parents keep nothing from him, and so this lie, even said with the best of all possible intentions, is almost choking to say. "It's good enough to give me books and things," he continues. "I'd much rather you were at home, instead of out looking for something you just said probably doesn't exist."

Augustus' shoulders slump. He turns to his wife. "It is true, you know."

She nods, says barely above a whisper, "I know."

"So you won't keep going off?" Remus persists. "You'll try to stay here, and read books with me, and play Quidditch in the garden?"

"Yes, yes, we'll all do that," Miriam assures him. "Your father still needs to go to work, of course, but not every day and not for so long."

Remus smiles. This is more than good enough. Very deep inside him, something is trembling at this decision; much as he would like to deny it, Remus has been harboring a secret hope that, one day, he will be able to look out his window at the rising full moon, and smile to it, and wave human hands, as though to an old friend. That one day his parents will not have to kiss him goodnight, and then, instead of tucking him into bed, close the cellar door and slide the bolt home. That one day he will not have to face a monthly crushing and reforming of bones and muscles and mind, while he fails to stifle screams he knows must rend at his parents' hearts.

But all those hopes are only fanciful dreams, so Remus beams around the supper table, and announces, "I just finished the most brilliant book …"

* * *

Sirius Black is eight years old.

He is trying his best to keep from yawning. He has been sitting at the same mahogany table for hours – four hours and thirteen minutes, to be precise, he decides, glancing at the grandfather clock in the corner – and so far he has learned nothing at all.

"Sirius!" his mother snaps.

Realizing that he has been staring at the same bit of maroon velvet curtain for the past few minutes, Sirius jerks upright and blinks innocently at his mother. "Yeah, every three days around the full moon, right?"

Rigmora gives him a sharp look. "Tell me a sign that distinguishes a werewolf from a true wolf."

"We haven't gone over that yet."

His mother's face twists, and Sirius bites back a laugh. She _knows_ he hasn't been paying attention, and she's perfectly well aware that he knows far more about the current topic than he's letting on – but she can't _prove_ it.

She shoves a large volume towards him. "Study this well," she says, the unsaid words _or else_ hanging in the air. Sirius doesn't ask, or else _what_. He doesn't need to know now; if ever he does find out, he'll deal with it when the time comes.

"Yes, mother," he says.

Rigmora sweeps out of the room in a flurry of long hair and wide mad eyes. Sirius slumps back against the large velvet chair, breaths an exaggerated sigh, and swings his legs a bit. Tiring of this, he experimentally rubs a thumb across the gold leaf and leather binding of the proffered tome. He has no need to actually open the book. Sirius knows what the volume contains, just as well as he knows all the others that are ranged on shelves around the dark and imposing Black family library.

There are curses in these books, charms and potions, hundreds of volumes detailing knowledge dark and forbidden and arcane. Some of the books are very old, and they all breathe the sort of dark dampness Sirius has come to associate with the idea of dungeons in old castles. Sirius has read them all, every book within his reach on these shelves, and some not within his reach – for Sirius can jump well, and climb better, and once he really did steal Bellatrix's toy broom. But Sirius tries not to think of these things; there are times when he tries very hard to forget the incantations he has read in some of these books, because it is one thing to own the knowledge, and another to use it.

This particular book, the one Sirius is currently running his thumb over, is the third volume in a series detailing sentient creatures commonly associated with the Dark. With absent eight-year-old carelessness, Sirius flips the book open to the table of contents, and whispers them aloud to himself.

"Introduction – The Myth of the Werewolf. One – The Nature of the Beast. Two – The Man. Three – Common Misconceptions. Four – Subduing the Beast. Five – Subduing the Man …"

Sirius flips through the book, until his hand comes to rest on a woodcut in chapter twelve, which discusses famous wizards and their interaction with werewolves. The woodcut is near the end of the chapter, and seems to depict Grindelwald, exalted in many of the Black family books as the greatest wizard of the twentieth century. Grindelwald's arms are raised, his wand held high, his robes whipping wildly in the wind. It is altogether a picture stereotypical of Muggles depicting sorcerers, but for the fact that a in Muggle woodcut, Grindelwald's robes would be caught mid-whip, not allowed to fly free in the picture's wind. But this is a wizard woodcut, and so below Grindelwald cowers a girl.

Cocking his head unconsciously in the manner of a curious dog, Sirius leans closer. He never tires of this picture. The girl, though in black and white, is undoubtedly very pretty. She is slender, with longish fair hair, and though she is scrabbling in the earth in an effort to get away from the towering Grindelwald, Sirius can see that her fingers are quick and graceful. Sirius is very young yet, but a part of him twists with a secret longing to meet this woodcut-girl, and save her from Grindelwald. Another part of him simply wishes he could throw Grindelwald a good punch, exactly as he was never able to do with Bellatrix.

Whatever the case, this woodcut with its beautiful terrified werewolf-girl has done its work well. Because of this picture, Sirius has unconsciously decided a number of things. He _hates_, with a passion, what his family holds dear. He knows with certainty that, unlike his family, this werewolf is worthy of empathy and respect. 

And somewhere, deep down, in the same place that twists whenever he sees the girl, Sirius has resolved that he will find his fair-haired, quick-fingered werewolf.

* * *

Remus Lupin is nine years old.

It has taken him almost two years, but he has done it. He is lying on his bed, in his little bedroom with the slanted ceiling and the old window that never shuts all the way and always lets in glorious amounts of sunlight. He rolls over, props his bare feet against the wall where it meets the slope of the ceiling, and hugs _The Return of the King_ against his chest. Two years it's taken him, carefully drinking in every word, pausing to relish a moment or a phrase.

Something glorious has taken place, and if Remus now learned that there was a version of Mount Doom into which he could drop the moon, he'd do it in a heartbeat.

There is a soft knock on his door. Slightly guiltily, Remus swings around so that his feet are on the floor where they properly belong. "Come in," he says.

Miriam enters, carrying hot chocolate and biscuits. Remus glances at the clock on his bedside table; the second hand has just ticked its way past the hour, and it's three in the afternoon. Every day now, for months, Remus's mother has come up to his room at exactly teatime, with tea and sandwiches, or chocolate and cookies in the wintertime, as it is now, and Remus tells her exactly what has happened in the wonderful books that she can no longer quite remember.

"I finished it," he announces.

His mother sets the tray on the floor and sits down beside it, so Remus slides off the bed to join her. "And?" Miriam says. "How did it end?"

Remus tells her.

She raises her eyebrows in surprise. "That's a rather bittersweet ending, I must say. Doesn't it disappoint you?"

"No," Remus replies comfortably, chewing on something soft and sugary. "I suppose anyone would choose to leave, if they'd been through something like that. Besides, Sam will join him eventually."

"Hmm," Miriam says, and laughs. "It still seems a rather empty comfort to me. Perhaps that's why I haven't read those books in so long; I do recall the ending disappointed me horribly."

Remus shrugs, and finishes his cookie.

They sit in silence for a few moments. Suddenly Remus feels slightly at a loss; these books, and the conversations about them, are what have been binding him to his mother. Now they are done with, and Remus hardly knows what to do. What does he say to his mother now?

He looks at her. The years have not been kind to Miriam Lupin; ten years ago, she was a laughing young woman with flowers in her hair at her wedding. She is older now, with laugh lines at the corners of her eyes and silver hair at her temples; but most of all Remus can see a funny sort of tightness to her skin, the taut look of the very ill. 

A part of Remus suspects that his monthly changing must have something to do with it; if he looks at photo albums more than three years in the past, he sees a laughing couple and their gleeful young son. Now, when Remus looks in the mirror, he can see an echo of that tightness around his own eyes too. But the truth of the matter – and Augustus and Miriam have always been very fastidious about the truth – is that there are some things in the world that even the most skilled wizard cannot cure. The bite of a werewolf is one of those things, and cancer is another. The pull of the moon runs in Remus's veins, and something far more insidious and destructive runs in his mother's. This likeness and this knowing bind them together, even – or perhaps especially – at times like this, when they sip their cooling cocoa and neither is sure what to say.

"How bad is it?" Remus says finally.

They both know what he is referring to.

Miriam gives him a smile. "Has the Change gotten any easier over the years?"

"No," Remus says truthfully, and that is answer enough to both questions, so he crawls into his mother's lap, and hugs her tightly. "If you leave," he says, muffled in her robes, "I don't know what Dad will do."

She pulls back and looks at Remus seriously. "Do you know what _you_ will do?"

"Reread this," Remus says promptly, holding up his battered book. "Dad and I can read it together." He receives another hug for this, and after a slight hesitation, adds, "Howling is singing, you know. I'll sing songs for you."

Miriam laughs at that. "Oh Remus, love, I'm sure I'll hear every one."

Remus nods. They have reached an accord, then, but she is not gone yet, and he plans to hold her tight until she really must leave, so he says, "Do you have anything else for me to read?"

"Yes," she says, getting to her feet and pulling Remus along with her, "hundreds and hundreds of books. The very thickest one is another thousand pages long."

"Let's see that one, then," Remus says.

* * *

Remus Lupin is ten years old.

He is doing his very best to read _The Taming of the Shrew_, but as Lucentio and Tranio plot to switch places, their words blur together. Remus shuts the book just in time to prevent a potential smudge of the ink, and his tear drops harmlessly onto the lap of his robe, staining it a darker red.

Really he should be wearing black robes, but Miriam rather disliked black, and anyway Augustus, in the kitchen and washing the dishes with rather a lot of bangings and clatterings, is wearing pale purple robes, so that's all right.

Remus looks back at his closed _Complete Works of Shakespeare_, but he isn't in the mood to find out why on earth Lucentio would want to marry Bianca, anyway. He climbs out of the overstuffed armchair and pads into the kitchen.

"Dad?"

Augustus turns from the sink. It takes him only a moment to see what is wrong, and then he is across the kitchen and hugging Remus tightly, sudsy hands and all. Remus gratefully clutches at him and sniffles into his shoulder. He suspects that his father is only being strong for his sake, and that Augustus Lupin spends sleepless nights crying over the empty place beside him in his bed, but nevertheless Remus appreciates the strength his father shows. Remus wants to be as brave as Augustus when he grows up.

At length Remus pulls back. "Dad, I was wondering if you knew where _The Lord of the Rings_ has got to …"

"Upstairs hallway, I think," Augusts says. "Would you like any dessert?"

"Any of that chocolate pudding left over?" Remus wants to know.

"Yes, I think. Enough for two last slices, at least."

Remus grins. "Thanks!" He pads back out of the kitchen and on up the stairs, peering at stacks of books as he goes. He has been the libraries before; rooms and rooms of books methodically ordered according to author and subject, all set neatly away on shelves. Remus admires the orderliness of that, but cannot imagine the books in his house being such: books are so much easier to find when they are lying in haphazard stacks in pools of sunlight, with their dog-eared pages and faded ink. The Lupin family firmly believes that the true care of a book lies in how well worn it is, not how well maintained.

He finds _The Two Towers_ and _Return of the King_ in the upstairs hall, as his father had said. He wonders absently where _Fellowship_ has gone, but waves the thought away. He selects _Return of the King_ and sits down in the window seat – more a ledge stacked with pillows, really – and flips through the old book until he comes to the place where all things may be cured save old age. 

Before he starts reading, Remus leans over the book, and breaths deeply, taking in the sweet musty scent of _the past_ and _hobbits_ and _Mum_. Feeling better already, he begins to read.

Miriam is in these books, lurking below the footnotes and in the right-hand quotation mark of Eowyn's dialogue, and downstairs Remus's father awaits with two generous helpings of chocolate pudding.

* * *

Sirius Black is eleven years old.

He also feels so nervous he suspects he may be sick. He only hopes that if this is the case he'll manage to be sick all over Evan Rosier, whom he has recently met on the Hogwarts Express and has decided he likes even less than Lucius Malfoy, if such a thing is possible.

Some things are not possible. It is possible to endure the stares of the entire Black family; Sirius can even stand the scathing stares of his parents, aunt, uncle, brother, and two of his cousins all at once, though he is very grateful that Andromeda secretly shoots him sympathetic looks from her place between Bellatrix and Narcissa. But Sirius isn't sure he can cope with a whole school of students staring at him. He stares desperately through the sea of pale, candle-lit faces, searching for the telltale short and gleaming black hair of his favorite cousin, searching for the Ravenclaw table. He can't quite figure out which one it is, but there, at the second table from the right, is Lucius Malfoy, silvery blonde hair and calculating eyes, and a little farther down the table Sirius sees Bellatrix, and quickly looks away. He does not want to be walking towards that table, a few minutes from now; there is a sinking feeling in his stomach, even worse than the sick feeling of nerves, and it is screaming that he _cannot do this_, that if he is in Slytherin his cousin will lord over him until he dies of it.

In desperation Sirius distracts himself by looking up at the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall; it is a dangerous gesture, at some unconscious level, for to do so he tips his head back, exposes his throat to the great swell of students in canine submission to the inevitable. He blinks at the moon, just past full, an awkward and ungainly not-quite-orb hanging in the glittering sky. Sirius's eyes travel, searching for the three stars in Orion the Hunter's belt, and then down and left, to the brightest one of all …

A hush falls over the Great Hall, and Sirius snaps back into reality.

The witch who has led them into this room, the Deputy Head with her severe bun and square glasses, is unfurling a parchment. The last notes of a song resonate somewhere behind Sirius's ears inside his head, and he realizes that his perusal of the stars has had a background song, something about the Houses and the Founders and choosing correctly. His stomach twists.

"Avery, Terence," the Deputy Head says.

Sirius watches without any real feeling as the boy stumbles up to the stool, and the Sorting Hat falls over his eyes, and after a moment's silence is proclaimed a Slytherin to cheering and a glowing pride on Bellatrix's face.

"Black, Narcissa," the witch reads.

Like the next steps in a terrible dance of fate, Narcissa is off to the Slytherin table in a flurry of long, beautiful hair.

And as Sirius shuffles towards the stool, somewhere in the back of his mind is the whisper _first three for Slytherin, must be some kind of record_, but he ignores it as best he can. Instead he jams the hat on his head, and waits with eyes squeezed shut in the dark, and does his very best not to think. He is good at not thinking now; not thinking ahead, and not thinking about what his father just said or his mother just did, and not thinking about what might happen if he does another thing wrong. Instead he simply sits, and waits for the blow to fall.

"If you're so opposed, don't think I'll put you _there_," says a little voice in his ear.

Sirius doesn't think very, very hard, pouring all his effort into this act of not-thinking. If he does, he will realize what the hat has just said, and that will be even worse than anything else. There cannot possibly be an alternative to being a Slytherin.

"Not necessarily," the hat puts in, which just goes to show that perhaps Sirius isn't quite as good at not thinking as he thinks he is. "After all," the hat continues, "your cousin Andromeda's a Ravenclaw."

Against his will, Sirius's eyes blink open. It is still quite as dark as if they were squeezed shut, but the velvety-black insides of the hat are almost comforting. Yes, Andromeda is a Ravenclaw. She is not really well-liked by the family, but then, neither is he …

The hat is muttering. It seems to be going through a litany of traits, cheerfully reading Sirius's innermost thoughts with clinical detachment. "Unwaveringly loyal, _quite_ stubborn, a want of freedom there too, hmm … A thirst for knowledge and a confidence for it too, I see. Ah, and what's _this_?" The _this_ is not specified, but Sirius can almost feel the hat picking through his mind, finding the day cousin Bella set him on fire, and the day he first really realized that his mother was mad, and the day he accidentally knocked Kreacher down the stairs, and a million fights with Regulus, and the first time he leafed through the library volumes and found the woodcut of Grindelwald and the werewolf girl …

Without any further warning whatsoever – for perhaps it knows Sirius would protest – the hat shrieks "GRYFFINDOR!"

There is immediate applause, but even through the daze as Sirius removes the hat from his head and stumbles toward the applauding table, trying to realize this strangest of all things, this _Gryffindor_ in which he finds himself, Sirius cannot help but notice that the proffered applause is scattered. The purebloods, Sirius decides vaguely, the ones who have heard of the Black family, they must be too stunned to applaud.

There is room for him at the end of one of the Gryffindor table's long benches. It is near the front of the table, near the Sorting Hat and its stool, and it is also on the left side of the table, so that there is a barrier of wood between him and the rest of the school, and if he turns around he will be faced with one of the Great Hall's high windows, and he will be able to see the Hogwarts grounds. And so, though Sirius knows he does it with bad manners, turning away from the lighted Hall and the attentive students, he looks out the darkened window.

The grounds are awash in moonlight, turning the whole place silver and ghostly. Sirius cannot see the lake from where he sits, but he can see a flank of the Forbidden Forest, row upon row of dark trees, and there, at their edge, is a little wooden hut. Sirius squints at it, frowning, because he cannot imagine what it might be for, but he shrugs, and his eyes drift off across the silvery lawn, and he sees a willow tree. He tilts his head a little to the right, in the unconscious gesture of a curious puppy, because he thinks he sees the willow move a bit, though there is no wind to speak of. But no – he must have imagined it. And he is supposed to be clapping now; a red-haired girl whose surname begins with E has just been proclaimed a Gryffindor, and is sitting down at the table, looking relieved and rather pleased with herself.

So it goes on, the Sorting in its monotony. Slytherins and Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs are proclaimed; Sirius is beginning to fear he may be the only first year boy in his house, for five others have joined the redhead girl, and not a single boy has been proclaimed Gryffindor.

Until –

"GRYFFINDOR!" the hat shrieks, and the boy with ordinary brown hair and graceful hands sets the hat back on its stool, and heads for the table. Sirius tries to catch his eye, to keep company with _someone_ tonight, but another student is in the boy's line of sight, and has slid aside to make space for him, and so the boy sits further down the table from Sirius and on the other side, and Sirius is still alone as "Moon, April" is welcomed to Ravenclaw.

Neither does the next boy for Gryffindor sit next to Sirius. Sirius tells himself he is glad of this, for the new boy, Pettigrew, has a pudgy face and watery eyes and he had looked very nervous when he put on the hat, but Sirius knows that he is fooling himself, that he would be perfectly happy should this boy, who is now chewing on his nails, sit next to him.

Luckily, Sirius has hardly a moment to be miserable about his rejection at the hands of Pettigrew, because the next child in line, a boy whose name Sirius did not catch, has been announced a Gryffindor as well; now he, dark hair wild and glasses glinting on the candle flames, is making a beeline for Sirius, and sitting down next to him.

"Hullo," the boy says in an undertone, grinning through the applause as 'Pucey, Natasha' becomes a Slytherin. He sticks out a hand. "James Potter."

Sirius takes it warily. "Sirius. Black."

If James has noticed the hesitation before the surname, he does not show it. "I think it's brilliant," he whispers. "A Gryffindor Black! That should give them all a turn."

"Yes," Sirius agrees, and twin smiles creep across their faces. "Yes, it will."

And, he decides, looking as this boy whose grin mirrors his own, maybe it won't be so bad after all.

* * *

Remus Lupin is twelve years old.

He is trying very hard to breathe normally.

There is a moon chart in front of him. This isn't a particularly welcome thing, but it seems quite welcome in comparison to the three boys standing behind it. James looks resolute, Sirius looks strangely excited, and Peter, hovering at James's elbow, looks obviously apprehensive.

"Yes?" Remus says as calmly as he can, carefully not looking at the moon chart.

"We were wondering …" James starts.

"That is," says Sirius, "we've tried to think up every possible conclusion, and the only one that makes sense –"

"Is that you're a werewolf," James finishes.

Even now, at a time like this, Remus can't help but marvel at the ease with which James and Sirius finish one another's sentences. They really do seem to be of one mind, but Remus isn't sure if he likes either half of it now, neither the resolution nor the excitement. Almost unconsciously, he glances around the dorm room, as though looking for a lurking stranger among the red velvet hangings. Of course no one is there, but Remus's nerves are shaken, and now would be as good a time as any for a dark and mysterious figure to jump out and yell, "Boo!"

It suddenly occurs to him that he is being utterly ridiculous, and that the other three boys are still watching him expectantly. He swallows.

"Why do you think that?" he asks, though he knows it is a losing battle.

James gestures to the moon chart. "It's pretty obvious, mate. I hope you don't mind we know."

Remus blinks. He isn't used to people who know and fear what he is; he is perfectly aware, however, that his childhood, surrounded by his parents and books, with his only friend a Muggle girl down in the village, was an incredibly sheltered one, and he knows quite well that most werewolves are horribly prejudiced against by the rest of the wizarding population. Remus never expected to go to Hogwarts; he was completely unsurprised to hear that only the teachers, those people who would _need_ to know about his condition, would know about it. He had never really expected that any students, even his clever dorm-mates, would discover the truth. And though he'd never really allowed himself to think of the possibility, of all probable outcomes, this was the very last. _I hope you don't mind we know_.

"Er," Remus says.

"I guess I don't mind," Remus says.

"Thanks," Remus says.

"No problem," James replies, and grins, a relieved grin.

"Just … don't tell anyone else, okay?" Remus says. "No one's supposed to know; there might be trouble with the school board, that sort of thing …"

"Got it," James says, and keeps grinning. "Just wanted to let you know. Anyway, I've got Quidditch practice. Anyone want to come?"

"I do!" Peter says quickly, and runs out of the room. James laughs and follows. Remus watches them go. There is a sinking feeling in his stomach; he's really not sure if he should be feeling relieved. James seems to be treating the whole thing as a sort of formality; it seems he only wanted to let Remus know what he knew, and leave it at that. Remus isn't sure what Peter thinks, but he's got the idea that perhaps it is causing the sinking feeling. Peter's scared of him.

Sirius is still standing by Remus's bed, shifting from foot to foot.

Remus turns, and raises an eyebrow. "Hi."

Sirius grins, a quick grin a bit more nervous than James', and bounces down on the bed next to Remus. "So," he says.

"So what?"

The other boy is chewing on his lip. "Can I … ask you a question?"

Remus blinks. "I guess so."

"What's it like?" Sirius is looking at him oddly; there is a strange, intense light in his blue eyes. "I mean … can you sort of, I dunno, feel that you're not human?" He runs a hand through his hair, makes a frustrated noise. "That sounded stupid. What I mean is, is it human most of the time, wolf three nights? Or is it more mixed up than that?"

Shifting uncomfortably, Remus shrugs. "If you mean there's this black-and-white thing, Remus-and-the-wolf, then no. It's more like …" He searches for words. Part of him is wondering why he is even trying to put his whole being into words for Sirius Black, of all people, but he _knows_ why he is doing so. It is because his parents never asked. They only offered love and support, and they never asked what it was actually _like_, because they didn't know – in fact, Remus didn't know, until just this minute – that perhaps talking about it would bleed some of the poison. And here Sirius is, seeming honestly interested, and so far Remus has seen no trace of malice on his face, so Remus says, "It's more like just knowing that sometimes you're going to make sense to the rest of the world, and sometimes you'll have four paws and you'll want to eat the rest of the world."

To his surprise, Sirius laughs at that, a little barking laugh. "So even I look edible sometimes?"

"Yes," Remus finds himself saying with perfect honesty. "Only not most of the time."

"Right now?" Sirius asks, leaning forward, a wicked smile on the corner of his mouth and his hair falling into his eyes.

"No," Remus laughs, and flicks at the black hair, so that he can see Sirius's eyes. "Right now you just look silly."

Sirius grins, and looks thoughtfully at Remus's hands. "It must hurt, though. I mean, it must hurt to change … It's not just boom, you're suddenly furry, right?"

"Yeah, it hurts," Remus says, barely above a whisper. "Because … all your bones sort of crunch and reform. Back legs and jaw are the worst. And the tail. And the ears. The fur hurts too … sort of like when you suddenly get really cold, and all your hair stands on end – like that, only it goes on for much longer."

Sirius looks thoughtful. "Does it hurt enough to scream?"

A flicker of _why_ dances across Remus's mind. Why is Sirius asking, why on earth is he telling, why does it seem like it might be possible for this boy, who is loud and silly and unthinking and James Potter's other half, _why_ does it seem as though he might possibly understand?

Remus flops back on the bed. "Yeah, it does."

After a moment's hesitation, the bedsprings squeak, and Sirius is lying beside him, some stray hair tickling Remus's cheek and Sirius's breath, warm and moist and smelling rather of Pumpkin Pasties, against the side of his face. "I'm sorry," Sirius says. "It must be awful, then. Especially the way the rest of the world treats werewolves."

Remus shrugs as expressively as he can while lying flat on his back. "It's not all bad, you know. There's some stuff I have that the rest of the world doesn't."

"Like what?" Sirius asks.

And Remus finds himself telling Sirius. That scents are almost like colors, and so the world is always a kaleidoscope of smell and memory and beauty. That changing form through pain and becoming a nightmare means that every dark thing about him is bared every month; he has faced his demons and made peace with them, something most people will never do. That howling is singing, and that three years ago he made a promise to his mother, and that, even wolf-shaped, he remembers this, and so he sings her songs.

Sirius's eyes are suspiciously overbright. "So you like your parents, then?"

Remus swallows the words _of course_, because he watches Sirius, and is beginning to guess a thing or two about the Blacks, and also because in a very short time Remus is doing a very lot of growing up, and so he only says, "Yes."

Sirius nods, and seems to wave the whole thing away. "I'd like to smell colors."

"Not a chance," Remus says, and pokes the other boy.

Sirius makes a happy little noise and pokes him back. "I will smell colors someday. I will. And then I'll laugh at you."

"And we'll sing together," Remus replies contentedly, and they go down to the Great Hall for lunch.

* * *

Sirius Black is thirteen years old.

It is Christmas, and he is wearing a red sweater, and sitting in the common room, and very obviously sulking. 

Everyone _else _gets to go home. Last week, James and Remus and Peter all packed in a flurry of clothes and hastily wrapped packages, talking loud and excited about what they will do for the holidays. Peter is going back to York, to spend a loud and warm and happy Christmas with his widowed mother and three younger sisters, and he has gotten them all sweets from Honeydukes. James is going down to Wiltshire, to a sprawling and sunny country house with gardens and a Quidditch pitch out back, though both will be snowed over at this time of year, and he will build snowmen with his mother and have snowball fights with his father and pull crackers at their Christmas dinner. Remus is going back to his little house on the moor, to read books with his father and sing Christmas carols in the village amid the falling snow. 

Regulus, who started Hogwarts this year, is going to London, to 12 Grimmauld Place, and he is having a Christmas feast with his parents and his cousins, and afterwards they will drink Kreacher's eggnog, which has always made Sirius sick.

And Sirius is sitting in the Gryffindor common room, staring morosely into the fireplace, which is lit by a cheery blaze, and he is doing his best to ignore the snow falling outside, and the smell of gingerbread wafting through the school's corridors, and the ghosts that are singing Christmas carols like funeral dirges, and the brilliantly decorated trees in the Great Hall, and the Christmas feast that will be starting in a few short hours.

There is nothing for him to do.

Sirius stretches out full-length on the overstuffed red couch, and lets his head fall back, and closes his eyes. Without his friends – lucky, so _lucky_, to go home and give presents and throw snowballs and sing carols – there is nothing to do, nothing of interest. He wonders vaguely how he managed eleven years without them, how he managed to survive with nothing but a mad family and sinister books to keep him company. He would read those books over and over, to gain the knowledge he had deemed so essential to surviving his family and childhood; he had perused that series of volumes on sentient Dark creatures, to teach himself that his family was so much worse, much worse than any vampire, much worse than any werewolf …

Quietly, inevitably, his thoughts turn to Remus.

He has never made a habit of letting his thoughts dwell on the other boy. Far too much of his time is taken up by plotting wicked schemes with James, or laughing good-naturedly at Peter's bumblings. But just now, snug in the part of his mind that is always thinking of the werewolf-girl in the woodcut, Sirius is suddenly remembering one of his last classes, just before school got out for the holidays.

The class was Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Professor Leverett had a boggart in her old leather trunk.

Sirius had found that particular class rather horrifyingly educational. He already knew all about boggarts from the Black family library, though this was the first time he'd ever tried his hand at vanishing them; no, the real lesson was in watching the other students. In the space of fifteen minutes, Sirius had discovered what each of his Gryffindor year mates feared most in the world.

Lily Evans was afraid of fire; Anna Blakely feared rats. James, Sirius was rather surprised to discover, was quite terrified of banshees, and Peter's boggart – Sirius had tried not to laugh until _after_ Peter preformed the _riddikulus_ – had turned into a yelling Professor McGonagall. Sirius's own boggart had turned into his mother, and it was with some measure of glee that he turned her into a broken wind-up toy. Remus had been next, had jumped up at the broken toy, and –

It was a glowing white orb. The bottom had dropped out of Sirius's stomach, as Remus had tilted his head to look up at it, face calm and pale in the moonlight. He had turned it into a ball of cheese, which fell to the floor with a satisfying thump, and everyone had laughed except Sirius.

Now, on the couch in the Gryffindor common room, Sirius's mind swims again in sympathy. To be so deeply terrified of what you are – it is unthinkable, even to this boy who fiercely hates his surname and lineage. 

He's got to – he _must_ – do something about this.

Sirius's eyes snap open. Four minutes later he is striding into the Hogwarts library, James's invaluable invisibility cloak stashed in a book bag taken from under Remus's bed; all ideas of sulking have fled his mind. He glances around … there seem to be no librarians about, so he ducks behind a shelf, wraps himself in the silvery liquid-cloth of the cloak, and steps casually over the rope barrier dividing the Restricted Section from the rest of the library.

Three hours later, he bursts into the Great Hall, face red from exertion. Lily and her friend Betty, who are also staying over the holidays, wave cheerfully to him from the Gryffindor table, so he goes over to them, still gasping for breath, and helps himself to some Christmas turkey.

"Busy day?" Betty asks him, amusement tingeing her voice.

Sirius gives her a rakish grin, thinking of the books on Animagi that have been hastily shoved under his bed in the dorm. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, busy day. Worth it, though."

* * *

Sirius Black is fourteen years old.

"Er," he says, blinking at the book.

"Wow," he tries.

Remus is watching him expectantly, the faintest hint of a smile dancing in his eyes. "Anything else?"

"Brilliant," Sirius manages. He isn't really that good with words, and just now he feels even less adequate than usual. The faint smell of an old pastry shop is lingering in the air, and Sirius is beginning to suspect that he'll never be able to set foot in Honeydukes without craving a wild adventure in another world.

"When I was little," Remus says conspiratorially, leaning across the round kitchen table, his elbow smudging the ink on some half-completed summer assignment, "I used to pretend I was Frodo." He notices the ink on his elbow, and frowns absently at it as he adds, "It made it easier to be me, you know."

"If it's not one round shiny thing, it's another," Sirius agrees with no eloquence whatsoever. "So who's Sam, then?"

Remus shrugs. "As yet, no one's gone around risking their life to help me deal with the moon, and I don't expect anyone to. Sam's just a nice daydream, you know."

_Ah, just you wait_, Sirius thinks, and with a trace of irony, adds, _Mr. Remus._

"Anyway," Mr. Remus says, obviously unaware of Sirius's thoughts, "I'd say we've officially overextended the metaphor as it is. He stands up and stretches, his back popping audibly. "I can see I'm not going to get any more homework done today, now that you've finished being distracted by good books." A smile chases itself across his face. "By the way, I'm impressed. It took me almost two years to read that the first time; you've got me considerably beat. When did I give you those books? Easter?"

"Yeah," Sirius says, and leaves _The Return of the King_ lying on the table, in Remus's house where it belongs. "So, what're we doing today?"

Remus shrugs. "If we're not doing homework, we might as well go out on the moor. If all else fails we can just run around screaming; there's enough space, and no one will mind, except maybe some birds."

Sirius grins. "Sounds like a plan."

And so they do exactly that. More accurately, they play the Muggle game of Tag, shouting and laughing under Scotland's summer sun. Sirius decides that they should do this far more often, but he knows it's far from likely. There is only one reason that he is here, running and stumbling and yelling in long dry grass with one of his very best friends in the world, and it is because, for once in his life, Fate has dealt him a decent hand.

He received the owl a week before school got out. It was written in his father's strong, elegant handwriting, and said simply, _We have important business to deal with, and you have not been invited. Find arrangements for the summer holidays; we expect to see you next summer, and no sooner_. Upon reading the letter, Sirius's throat had tightened momentarily; but then, they had never cared, and so he had told James with no preamble whatsoever that he was coming to Wiltshire with him, and Remus had overheard and said that James wouldn't be holding Sirius hostage all summer, and he would be dragging Sirius to his own house whether James liked it or not.

Sirius spent a month at James's house, playing Quidditch and drinking iced tea in the shade of their wraparound porch, talking to Mr. and Mrs. Potter until he decided that James is the luckiest boy on earth, and that he would give anything for the Potters to call him their son.

And in early August, Remus and his father had turned up in a battered old green car, and driven Sirius all the way up to Scotland. They had made a leisurely way, stopping at Stonehenge, and the Tour of London, and they had stopped by King's Cross to laugh and knock on the unyielding barrier. For a week they pretended to be from another country, saw all the sights of England, and pretended to be Muggles too, looking at ordinary things as marvelous and marvelous things as ordinary.

So now Sirius is at Remus's house, with its little garden and piles of books, and Remus's bedroom with the slanted ceiling, and he decides that in a perfect world, he would have spent his childhood at the Potters, and will be spending the rest of his life here in the little house on the moor with Remus.

* * *

Remus Lupin is fifteen years old.

He will not cry. He _will not cry_. He is fifteen, and he can deal with this, and he will not cry.

"Oh," he says, in a very small voice, and helplessly tangles his hands in soft thick black fur. The dog looks up at him, and cocks its head sideways, and cheerfully drools on him a little. "_Gross_," Remus adds, and laughs, a shocked little laugh.

Peter is suddenly standing there, looking worried. "Do you like it?"

"_Like_ it?" Remus breathes, still staring at the large black dog, at his hands still hopelessly tangled in its ruff. "You say you've thought of something to make the Change easier, and then you turn into – into _this_. Like it!"

James is now standing beside Remus, with a worried look identical to Peter's. Whereas the other boy is suddenly taking up much more room than he was before, James is taking up considerably less. Antlers apparently take up space, Remus thinks absently.

"A simple yes or no, mate," James says. "I mean … er, are you happy? Or do you just think this is stupid?"

Remus finds himself laughing again. "All three of you are absolutely _mad_, and I know becoming an Animagus is terribly difficult, and you could have done _considerable_ damage …" He watches their faces, and when he sees they are sufficiently subdued – quite a feat, really, he's been trying to get them to come to their senses for _years_ – he adds, "And I love it. I _love_ it!" And then Remus can do nothing else, and so he buries his face in Sirius-the-dog's black fur, and perhaps Sirius can feel the cool wet of his tears, but Sirius does nothing, just snuffles in a quiet doggy way.

Finally Remus looks up, and James and Peter don't seem to notice his momentary lapse of control. "So," he says, "it's James the British stag – I'm sure there must be some specific type of deer, James, but I'm no good with that sort of thing –"

James shrugs. "I'm no good at it either. I don't suppose any deer know what sort of deer they are, anyway."

"Good point," Remus says. He's warming to his theme now, and as long as he keeps from really thinking about the magnitude of what his friends have done, he thinks he'll probably keep his composure perfectly. "Now, Peter … you'll be a garden rat, I think. Thanks for not being one of those ugly black sewer kind."

"Eww," says Peter, but he grins proudly.

Remus peers skeptically down at the dog whose head is still in his lap. "And Sirius … Newfoundland, perhaps?"

There is an odd little shift, and then Remus's hands are wrapped in the hair at the base of Sirius's neck, and Sirius is shifting out of a peculiar sort of crouch. Remus hastily untangles his hands, and Sirius flashes him a grin before unfolding and coming to sit next to Remus on the bed.

"Mutt," he says decidedly.

"Big black drooling mutt, then," Remus agrees happily.

He thinks of something.

"No fair I'm the only one with a stupid name," he announces. "And as I'm never going to forgive you for _Moony_, James, I think it's only fair we call you something silly as well."

James grins. "Fair enough."

Somehow, in the next mad half hour, they wind up as Moony and Prongs and Wormtail and Padfoot. Moony holds out that Padfoot definitely got the best end of the deal; Prongs says that his own name is perfectly fine, so what on earth is Moony talking about; Wormtail says that really he's just fine with being called Peter, thanks, but he is immediately shushed by the enthusiastic Padfoot and Prongs.

When things have finally calmed down, and Remus has told Sirius and James in no uncertain terms that if they don't shut up about this whole nickname business, he will never answer again to Moony in his life, relative quiet descends upon the dorm room.

"So," Remus says. "Whose mad idea was this, anyway?"

Peter glances between Sirius and James, and the other two boys exchange a fleeting look. "We all did," Sirius says.

"Ah," says Remus, and understands perfectly.

* * *

Sirius Black is sixteen years old.

The noble and most ancient house of Black, he decides, should forthwith be called the backstabbing and bloody backwards house of Black. It's far more truthful, and there's also a better ring to it.

He has just discovered why, two summers ago, his parents had business to attend to. Business to which Regulus was invited, and he was not.

Regulus is just fifteen, and he now has robes and a blank mask, and Arcturus and Rigmora are _proud_ of him, and today Sirius finally cracked, finally cracked and shouted at them, called them stupid, and evil, and swore at them, until his mother slapped him, hard, across the face. She shrieked back, that he was a disgrace and a traitor and a blemish upon their ancient house, and she could not believe that she, a Black on both sides for generations and practically a queen among wizardkind, could have born a son like him. Sirius shouted back that he couldn't believe he'd been born to such a dirty family either, and if they were going to be idiots who sided with some psychopath who wanted all Muggleborns dead, he wanted nothing more to do with them, _ever_. And he had stormed up to his room.

Where he is now, with a distinct sense of déjà vu. 

He means it, though. He's going to leave.

_Where_, though, is he going to go?

Perhaps he can go to Peter's. But then, no, Sirius thinks. He has never been to Peter's house; he knows that it is small, and in York, and that there is a Mrs. Pettigrew there, and three Pettigrew girls – two of whom are now at Hogwarts, and are loud and cheerful and vaguely pudgy, like Peter – but Sirius knows no more than that. He can hardly imagine himself living there.

So, then, with Remus …? At that thought, Sirius's stomach does something strange, a sort of funny drop, that has nothing to do with nerves and makes his breath quicken. This, of course, hardly makes sense; but more to the point, Sirius doesn't want to intrude. Remus and his father, Sirius remembers realizing sometime during the summer after fourth year, have a very special bond. There is a sort of sad, quiet strength in both of them that Sirius doesn't quite understand. And Sirius can imagine the reaction should he turn up on the doorstep: Remus would hug him tightly and ask him if he is all right – Sirius's stomach does that funny flip again – and when he found out the truth of the matter, that Sirius is angry and has run away from home, both Remus and Augustus will want him to work things out, find some way to set things to rights, and he wouldn't be long in the Lupin residence. Sirius suddenly remembers that this won't matter anyway, because Remus mentioned something about a trip to Germany with his father; no one will be there to tell him to go back, anyway.

Well then. James.

And Sirius wants to hit himself. Of course he _had_ to waste time with the dumber possibilities before he came to the obvious conclusion. James will never want him to come back here; Mr. and Mrs. Potter will welcome him as a second son; he can start over, _start over_, away from the idiocy and the madness of the house of Black.

Sirius leaps down from the window seat, and pulls his trunk out from the foot of his bed. He throws it open: there, half-completed homework, scribbled notes, spellbooks, robes. Sirius never really unpacked, in the week since returning from Hogwarts; the only thing he really needs is his key to the Black family Gringotts vault. He supposes detachedly that his parents will disown him for this, but he cannot bring himself to care, and besides, he will be able to get as much money as he needs to with this key; the goblins don't care about family feuds, only validity.

He will go to Gringotts, then, and exchange some wizarding money for Muggle. He can then catch a train – it will have to be from King's Cross, as that's the only station he really knows how to get to from Diagon Alley – and make his way down to Wiltshire.

He checks his robe pocket for his wand, pulls it out, and makes the trunk feather-light. He checks the clock above the door; it's almost midnight, and his family will be asleep. Sirius finds a grin slipping across his face, and he tiptoes out of the room, swinging his trunk.

He pauses only once as he makes his way out of the house. It takes only a minute – he creeps into the library, swinging one of the double doors open as swiftly as possible so that it only has half a second to squeak in protest. He moves quietly, stepping only on the thick dusty rugs where a creak of the floorboards won't give him away, and he makes for one of the lower shelves, the ones he could reach as a child, the ones filled with books his parents deemed educational and proper for young Sirius to read.

The particular shelf he makes for is third from the bottom. He crouches, runs his hand along the shelf until he finds a series of twelve volumes. His hand hovers for a moment; then, swiftly, the third volume is pulled from the shelves. Still crouching on the balls of his feet, he riffles through the pages until he comes to a woodcut in chapter twelve. A moment's stillness; in one decisive movement, Sirius rips the page cleanly from the book, and shoves the rest of the tome back on the shelf. Then, clutching his stolen paper, he bounds back out of the library, snatches up his trunk, and makes his way downstairs.

As he shuts the front door behind him, Sirius turns around, and looks one last time at the house. Tall, narrow, and dirty, it's like every other house in this court, Muggle and wizard alike. Sirius salutes it ironically, and sets off for Diagon Alley.

* * *

Remus Lupin is seventeen years old.

One finger rests shakily against his lips, a vain effort to recapture what has just occurred.

"Oh," he says, with surprising coherency, considering.

Sirius grins at him, and hesitantly tucks a strand of brown hair behind Remus's ear, then leans against the rough stone wall of the stairwell.

Remus swallows. He carefully runs his mind back over what has just happened. As far as he knows, James and Peter left for breakfast a little while ago. It had taken himself and Sirius a little longer to get out of the dorm; Sirius had enlisted Remus's help in finding a blue shirt that Sirius swore was his favorite, and so Sirius had wandered around in a nightshirt and jeans, and Remus in his pajama bottoms, looking for a shirt that Remus, just now, is beginning to suspect doesn't even exist. Especially since Sirius spent more time looking at him than around the dorm. Finally Remus, exasperated, lent Sirius one of his own shirts. They made their way out of the dorm, both wearing old Remus-shirts, which brings them to the stairwell, where they are now.

And then – Remus mentally examines this as closely as he can – when they were halfway down the stairs, Sirius said, "Remus," which wouldn't be odd at all except that by this point they generally all refer to each other by their ridiculous nicknames. And so Remus had turned, opened his mouth to say "yes?" but never did so, because Sirius was kissing him awkwardly, and Remus barely had time to register that Sirius tasted like toothpaste and sugar quills, and Remus thought absently, _just like Sirius, to have sweets before breakfast_.

It's only really now that it actually occurs to him that Sirius just kissed him.

"Oh," he says again.

Sirius bites his lip, shifting uncomfortably. "Oh?"

Things are rather easier with Padfoot. When Sirius is a dog, and gives Remus sloppy wet doggie kisses, Remus can laugh and squirm and hug Padfoot and carefully not remember that this is actually a rather furry version of Sirius licking his face. He can tell Padfoot exactly what he thinks, and not really worry, because it is quite a bit like confiding to a pet. It's different with Sirius, because Sirius can answer back.

Remus says, "Let's get down to breakfast, shall we?"

It is obviously the wrong thing to say.

"Wait!" he says, and Sirius stops, and turns around, and there is something very honest about the uncertainty on his face. It suddenly occurs to Remus that they've never had trouble talking before, and nothing's different now.

Except everything.

"I … I don't mind," he says hesitantly. "I mean, er …" He's supposed to be the one who is good with words. He tries again. "I liked that," he says honestly. "I mean, I really liked that. I just never thought you'd –"

"You're an idiot," Sirius says fondly, looking suddenly and immeasurably relieved. "Never thought _I'd_ …" He shakes his head, looking incredulous. "You're brilliant. Why wouldn't I?"

"Well, you might like girls, for a start," Remus says. He feels safe again; this is familiar ground, this good-natured banter.

Sirius shrugs. "They giggle too much."

This makes Remus himself giggle involuntarily, which he's sure isn't helping his case much. "Maybe you just have that effect on people." It comes to him that there are much more productive ways to spend his time, considering what has just been brought to his attention. "We don't have to go down to breakfast quite yet, do we?" he adds.

A grin slips across Sirius's face. "I guess not," he says slowly, and walks back up the steps, and slides a thumb across Remus's jaw.

Remus's eyes shut involuntarily. "So you know," he says, trying not to mumble, "I'm not very good at this sort of thing."

He can almost feel Sirius shrug. "Doesn't matter."

And then Sirius's mouth is on his again, and maybe really nothing does matter, except _this_.

* * *

Sirius Black is eighteen years old.

He is swearing softly, stumbling through their flat. Remus is still leaving books lying all over the place, the silly git, and this is the second pile he's tripped over – this pile, of course, containing an Oxford dictionary on which he stubs his toe. He limps through the sitting room, and sticks his head into the bedroom, wincing. "Remus?"

"Hmm?" Remus looks up from the book he is reading. It takes him only a minute to see Sirius is obviously in pain; a look of concern crosses his face, and his graceful hands stick a leather bookmark in the book. He sets it on the nightstand, swings his legs off the bed, comes padding over to Sirius. "What's the matter?"

Sirius offers Remus his burned hand, wrapped clumsily in the damp and rather dirty dishtowel.

Remus winces sympathetically. "Let's see that hand."

Even with his hand throbbing, Sirius automatically slips into banter. "Which hand?" he asks, grinning, though it is rather strained.

Rolling his eyes, Remus carefully unwraps the burned hand. "Did you bind this?"

"Yeah."

"Well, we'll have to put some healing salve on it," Remus says briskly. "Silly Padfoot. How did you do it?"

Sirius shrugs. "Not my fault."

"Goodness, Sirius, don't be stubborn," Remus says patiently. "At a guess I'd say you were cooking, and you got distracted."

"I guess so," Sirius says guiltily. "I suppose after this you'll never trust me to cook again."

"I never trusted you to cook in the first place," Remus replies with gentle humor, and leads Sirius back into their little kitchen by the elbow. Sirius stares out the window at the Edinburgh cityscape, trying not to pay attention as Remus smears his hand with something cool and faintly stinging. 

"Ow!" he says.

Remus chuckles, pressed up against Sirius, so that he can feel Remus's laugh reverberating against his back. He grins in spite of himself.

"Silly Padfoot," Remus says again.

Suddenly something seems very important. Remus has just finished wrapping his hand, this time in dry gauze; Sirius turns, and regards Remus seriously. "Hey," he says.

The other boy – for they are still boys, Sirius knows, though he likes to deny it – blinks up at him. "Yes?"

"I love you," Sirius tells him, because it is true, and he has never said it before, because between them, most things need not be said. But this is important, because Remus is more real and more brilliant than ever a woodcut was, and also because somewhere inside himself, Sirius knows that both of them have been dealt too much pain in their lives, and so secretly they doubt this, that they can live comfortably in an Edinburgh flat with a public library down the street and the Lupin house on the moor no more than an hour's flight away on Sirius's motorbike, and most importantly because shadows are moving about in the world, and they are both fighting, and neither really knows whether he will live to see the next sunrise.

"Yes," Remus whispers happily, and ducks his head so it is resting on Sirius's shoulder. "I love you too," he mumbles into the cloth of Sirius's robe.

This moment stretches into eternity, golden motes of evening sunlight filling the kitchen, Sirius with his burned hand and Remus with his graceful ones, each leaning against the other, in preparation for the coming storm.

"Now," Remus says, and the moment breaks. "What on earth were you trying to cook, anyway?"

"Pasta," Sirius replies.

"We'll go out for Italian food, then," Remus says promptly, and so they abandon their flat for the streets of the city, and walk cheerfully hand-in-hand into the future.


End file.
